That Which Shouldn't Be Done
by Rowana Renee
Summary: A series of three oneshots, each containing a different moment of heartbreak in the form of something that really shouldn't be done. Rated for vague adult themes in chapter one and torture in chapter three.
1. What's Been Done

**Er, this is going to be a story, without much detail, mainly because I don't feel I'm exactly the right person to write it in detail. Basically, the idea comes from the book- chapters thirty-one through thirty-seven, which made me want to strangle that little idiot. In case anyone doesn't know what happens at that part of the book, and without giving too much away, basically D'Artagnan has a really. stupid. idea. And he asks Athos about it, and Athos says "No- bad idea" and D'Artagnan does it anyway. And it's all very horrible... Anyways, now, I'm transplanting what happened, in a weird sort of way, into the movieverse. So, for the sake of clarity, this is at some point after the sequel that was hinted at in the end of the movie. Does that make sense? Hope it does...the italic portions should help. Feel free to shoot me if this little vignette is too confusing ^:^**

**By the way- this isn't a chapter story. It's a story in three chapters, that's all. None of them will be connected, and they're all about instances of things happening that bloody well ought not to in the world of our wonderful company and 'Tagnan. **

**Oh, and WARNING BELL for implications of adult themes, in this first chapter, anyway. Not sure about the others yet.  
_**

~That Which Shouldn't Be~  
Chapter One: What's Been Done

He knew he looked like death itself as he stumbled- and what made him stumble?- into the home he shared with his friends. God, he hurt all over, felt like he ought to be bleeding. If his pain wasn't caused by physical affliction, than it was due to wounded honour and, worse, the conscience that was screaming at him, had been screaming at him, that he'd failed to hear when he needed it most.

The room itself was dark, aside from the dying fire in the hearth. It seemed to reflect his own soul at that moment, having once been bright and steadfast, but now reduced to little beside a faint glow upon coal and ash. The house seemed empty, with no voices to be heard.

He'd come all this way, only to be alone.

But wouldn't he give anything for anyone's voice? Not just the one he was looking for, but that of anyone else. As long as it whispered forgiveness, surely it would do?

It was that thought that drove him, with a pained, muted whimper, to his knees.

_"Athos, _listen_, she has information, and we both know that if anyone can get it, I can."  
"Are we so desperate for information, then?"  
"You know we are."_

_"Have you learned _nothing_ of her? She will use you without shame, without regret, and when she's finished, you'll be nothing but a vague image of m-"  
"She doesn't know me like she knew you; that in itself is an advantage. I'll love her with my head, not my heart- even Constance would understand as much."  
"Damn it, D'Artagnan! She's practically your mother!" _

_"And you're practically my father! The least you could do is offer a vote of confidence!"_

_"The least you could do is see sense, boy. What if it goes too far?-"  
"It won't-"  
"-it will."_

_And it did_

He didn't know how long he stayed there, on his knees, head down, hardly daring to breathe for the turmoil that was shaking him. All that he was aware of, or could be aware of, was that some time after falling he heard the sound of footsteps, heard the faintest echoes of a voice that called his name in surprise that should have been fury.

The footsteps quickened, and the voice came again, shortly followed by a hand on his shoulder.

It took every ounce of his self control not to shy away from the touch.

The voice came again, followed by a gentle shake that did nothing to stir him.

Worry began to lace the words, and the man knelt before him, lifting his chin and forcing him to make eye contact. He'd known who it was even before seeing him, though he'd wanted to deny it, and it mattered little that his vision swam with too much force to perceive the face that loomed near his own.

"_Am I going to hell_?" he whispered.

He wasn't entirely sure of the response before he was pulled into a warm embrace, one he hadn't asked for, certainly didn't deserve, but had wanted more than he'd hoped for_. _

_She was watching him, the pretty maid. She'd watched him every day he'd come here, even if it had escaped his notice. He didn't know why Athos had been so worried- Milady didn't suspect a thing. Of course, he hadn't managed to get any information from her yet, but he would. Eventually. It would just take time, and that was something he thought he had plenty of._

_When the maid brushed against him on the staircase the first time, he thought nothing of it. After all, the kindness of her voice as she begged pardon left little room to doubt her sweetest of intentions. He hardly glanced at her before continuing on his way. _

_The next time it happened, he noticed that the contact was prolonged, almost as if she'd done it on purpose. Again, though, the softspoken little maid reassured him and insisted that she would pay more careful attention next time. He walked on, but not before noticing the shade of her eyes with no small admiration. _

_The pattern continued, each and every day, until, once, she all but fell against him, pressing close until he found his back against the wall, her hand entwined in his. Such action should have repelled him- it was almost vulgar, this contact, but when he looked at her, saw the glimmer in those eyes that could surely hide nothing, he found himself whispering to her. Perhaps she had a message for him?  
Ah, and what a message it was. It seemed her mistress knew everything that transpired, and his frustration was of such volume that it nearly frightened the poor maid who, she said, adored him so well. _

_Perhaps it was wrong, cruel, even, but when she showed him a letter, he thought that he may have at last acquired the information he desired, and promised to meet her again before any nobility or higher honour than vengeance could speak to him._

When he next opened his eyes, he found himself in his old bed, heart thrumming wildly. He scarcely recalled the events of the previous night, only that there had been a bath, and a meal, and a soothing voice that assured him his wrongs would be forgiven. The voice had continued, even as he lay down, and he was certain he'd heard it long after falling asleep.

He felt better than he had, though something still wasn't right. He knew, almost right away, the exact cause of his grief, and the knowledge had him staggering out of bed, hastening to get dressed so he could find the higher power with whom he was now pressed to make ammends.

The man had avoided him like sin- an accurate term, considering all that had taken place- and now it was time to apologise, to do so much more than simply apologise. He didn't know what he'd say, or if he'd even be able to speak when the moment came, but he did know that if he didn't do it straight away, it would never get done.

It had never struck him before that one person's absense could make him feel so utterly lost, but now he did know as much, and his wrongdoing weighed heavily on him. Even if Aramis had promised that God would forgive him, there was a worldly forgiveness that mattered almost equally as much.

So it was that, running downstairs as fast as his legs could carry him, he paused only to ask Aramis for direction before he sped off in search of his former friend.

Upon finding him, however, he found that all words failed him.

The man turned to look at him, bearing the same expression of pure regret that he'd seen last, and one word came back to him.

"_Athos_,"

_The third time he came to see her, it was obvious from her expression that she had begun to doubt his reasons for paying mind to her affections. He tried to tell her, tried many times, to tell her it wasn't only the letters he wanted, that he returned her feelings wholeheartedly. And, maybe, somewhere within him, he did. He felt no ill toward the maid, though she didn't make his heart beat as Constance had. _

_She followed the first kiss with a whispered request, her voice so quiet he was hard-pressed to hear her, but, upon looking her in the eyes, he knew exactly what she wanted._

_Proof. _

_This wasn't some foolish maiden, he realised, she knew, and would always know, that he wasn't fully hers and never would be. But she still hoped, somehow, that his better nature would win out over the desire to ensnare Milady. She thought, honestly thought, that she could make him truly love her. _

_And he did try, when he saw what he'd done. _

_The poor girl was his, in every way, and he'd used it to his advantage without a thought for what would happen after, when he no longer needed her. That, he knew, was against everything he'd ever believed in. So he made an effort to feel for her what she felt for him, tried to show her as much in word and action, even if it was in vain from the very beginning. _

_She knew, as well, because she wept the moment it was done. Wept harder still when he asked her to carry a letter to her mistress. _

Athos looked at him warily, as if he hardly dared believe his eyes. He looked utterly haggard, with darkness around his eyes and a manner that suggested he'd gone an age without sleep. There was a half-empty bottle in his hand, and another, empty, bottle set on the ground nearby.

He could've wept just then, but something prevented him, and he took a step forward, closer, as he fought for words. Whatever he said, he knew, would mean nothing. And everything. It was as if he'd been rendered mute of all but the man's name as he stepped nearer still, steps slow and nervous.

Athos clearly felt the same way, for his entire posture was tense, unsure of what to expect.

It came as a relief, though, when it was he who spoke the next word, even if it was in a curt, clipped tone that had been foreign up until that point. It held something akin to reproach, even if that wasn't quite the emotion he tried to convey.

"D'Artagnan,"

_If the experience with the maid had been uneasy, with the mistress it was even worse. _

_Summoned to her chambers like a servant at her call, he'd had a fair idea of what was coming, but forgot his unease the moment she spoke. She gave no hint of suspecting him, but very much gave off the air of a cat playing with a wounded mouse. This, he was blind to, convinced as he was of his triumph. One more day, perhaps two, and he'd have what he came for. _

_The conversation was, at first, civil only, before it took on an almost playful nature. _

_Playful, but with something deadly lying underneath. _

_She began to ask questions instead of answer them as the night progressed, working him over mechanically, sadistically, her voice dripping with concealed venom._

_At what point he realised his failure, and her triumph- if it could be called that, when there had been no challenge- he didn't know. Only that, when he woke in the morning to find her standing over him, watching him sleep, with an amused expression, he knew that she knew, had known all along, the purpose of his coming, and that he wouldn't get another chance._

_She didn't speak another word as he left, unable to look her or her maidservant in the eye, but he thought he could hear her quiet laughter as the gate was closed behind him. _

_If she wasn't human, then surely he wasn't either._

There were several things he wanted to do, not the least of which was to throw himself at Athos' feet and beg for reconciliation until his throat bled. But he simply stood there, avoiding looking directly at the man, until his mind caught up with him, allowing him to speak once more.

"Athos," he said again, moving forward again, "Athos, I-"

"I know." the musketeer interrupted.

"I never meant," he began, but was interrupted again as Athos held up a hand for silence, gaze burning into him like a fire, making him tremble under its intensity.

"I know what you meant, boy, and what you didn't mean. You're a damn fool."

He flinched, but said nothing. If Athos wanted to be furious with him, it was less than he deserved by more than a small margin. He'd half hoped that, in contrast to the sympathy of Aramis and indifference of Porthos- and Porthos, indeed, had hardly shrugged when he'd told them of his plan- Athos, at least, might berate him for his stupidity, even strike him. What he hadn't dared hope for or expect, however, was what Athos did and said next.

"But," he said, moving within reach and clasping the boy lightly by the arm, "what's done is done, and there's no undoing it. There is, however, fixing it. So you'd better stand up straight and look me in the eye, not stare at the ground like some sort of coward."

But how could he meet Athos' gaze after what had happened, what he'd done, what Athos _knew_ he'd done?

"D'Artagnan," Athos said firmly, "_look at me_."

With a faint shudder, the boy obeyed, but his voice still broke when he addressed Athos. "I'm sorry,"

Athos nodded, but pulled him close. "I know," he said again, "and so am I."  
_

**If anyone has any complaints about it, don't hesitate to tell me so in a review, but please don't tell me something's wrong and not tell me how it could be fixed :P Next one is an idea that didn't come from the book, but just some stuff I've seen floating around.**

**Not going to rip anyone off, of course, but let's just say that, while this chapter is "What _has_ been done", the next one is "What _could_ be done" and the one after is "What _will_ be Done" ^_^ **


	2. What Could've Been done

**And now for chapter two! This one is going to be a little strange, because it features Athos in a rather bad lighting, I'm afraid. Not as in "He's the bad guy" but just...well, you'll see. The idea for this one is basically just that it's always Athos who helps 'Tagnan when he needs it, so what if, this one time, he's the one causing the hurt.**

**I'll also shamelessly admit that it's partway because last night, during a rant about how cross I was with 'Taggy, I had made a comment about 'Taggy needing to spend a few minutes behind a woodshed with Angry!Athos and a crowbar. Wait, wait, don't hit the back button yet- I promise that that is not what this particular oneshot entails, not at all, sir ^:^ It's rated for a liiiiiiiiiiitle bit of violence, but nothing terrible. Also alcohol use, not that anyone probably cares about that. But there shall be a little hint of fluff...not really, but a little!  
_**

~That Which Shouldn't Be~

Chapter Two: What Could've Been Done

It wasn't as if this hadn't nearly happened before, thanks to the boy's stupidity. There had been many instances when, following where he shouldn't be following, he'd come up behind Athos, or Porthos, or even Aramis, on one occasion, and nearly been run through or given a nasty blow because of it. It should never have been a surprise when it really did happen, shouldn't have come as any sort of shock, because it had come so close to happening, and so often. But perhaps it wasn't that it had happened that had stunned them both into silence- it was that, this time, it had been done on purpose, if not full awareness, with both people involved knowing exactly who the other was.

He half expected the boy to actually cry, while the other half of him knew that such a thought was ridiculous. Yes, the blow had hurt, the blow to his pride had hurt even more, but not enough for someone like him to shed tears over. He was too bloody noble to react in such a way.

Nobility, however, did nothing to stop the initial, instinctive, reaction.

The lad couldn't help but recoil, but Athos felt he could at least do him the service of fleeing immediately, rather than standing there, looking bewildered, looking like a child who had just received a thrashing. Well, in a way, he was, but Athos had barely touched him! He didn't deserve the look he was getting, and he knew it.

Something inside him said that he was wrong, that he should apologise, but the feeling wasn't enough to win out over the fire in his veins, the raw fury and grief that had made him strike the boy to begin with.

That tiny flicker of regret did nothing to keep him from ordering D'Artagnan from the room, and the anger only flared more when the command was refused, met only with that same hurt, confused look as before.

The wine was blamed a second time when, with an almost inhuman snarl of rage, he raised his hand again, all but bellowing for D'Artagnan to _get out_.

His command was received with a harsh flinch, but he saw the look go from hurt to offended, to almost as furious as he himself was. D'Artagnan, with a glare, drew himself up to full height- which was just to Athos' chest, despite his best efforts- and met his eye before giving a brief nod, followed by, "_Yes, monsieur_," in a voice that was little more than an aggravated whisper. He exited the room, then, not in the direction Athos had intended, which would have been out the door and to his own room. Instead, however, the boy had barely vanished from sight before Athos heard footsteps on the stairs, and a few seconds after that, the door being flung open as D'Artagnan went outside.

Ironically, it was raining.

So help him, if the little fool caught his death, the thought almost made Athos entertain the idea of going after him and dragging him back, but he ignored it. He allowed a quiet groan before sinking back into his chair, glaring at the bottle of wine he'd just been interrupted from finishing.

It wasn't his fault, it was D'Artagnan's, and only D'Artagnan's.

But it was _his_ fault, wasn't it?

After all, if he hadn't-

But he _had_.

_A few hours earlier..._

_Athos had known all along that the others knew he was building up to a foul mood. He didn't even know why. It had been a year, almost to the day, since Milady had fallen from the airship, had let herself fall. He supposed that she must have loved him, in her own strange way, to spare him having to kill her himself. But he still hated her, still loved her just as much as he always had, and hated himself for not being able to get her out of his heart and mind. _

_Porthos and Aramis had enough sense to stay away from him, or at least work around his increasingly stormy attitude, in the days leading up to the anniversary of her death. They could read him almost better than he could read himself, and knew there was nothing to be said or done, that he'd return to normal in his own time, in his own way. _

_It was that blasted D'Artagnan that didn't seem to know any better. _

_He'd known them for a full year already, and was nearly as good at telling their moods as they were at telling each others', but not that good. Somehow, he'd managed to avoid the lesson that none of them had even had to learn, that there was no changing Athos' mind, and certainly no changing his temper. _

_The boy had noticed Athos becoming cross almost right away, and had set immediately to pestering him about it, wanting to know what was wrong, if he could do anything. The answer was no! How many times did he have to be told? _

_It got more and more annoying as the man searched for privacy that the boy didn't want to allow. Could he not imagine the idea that some people wished to grieve quietly? And didn't prefer anyone else to know? _

_When the day of the death itself arrived, Aramis and Porthos were wise enough to leave him alone, and it was only the fact that D'Artagnan, mercifully, was away on patrol that kept him from meddling. Athos had, for the majority of the morning, remained in his room, looking over the old letters from his former lover, wondering how much of what had been written was true, and how much had been a lie. _

_He played over the whole thing in his mind- had she been pretending the entire time, or had she changed only when Buckingham and the Cardinal had made their offers?_

It was a frustration he knew it was better not to dwell on, but it was his weakness, it seemed, and he couldn't stop himself even as he heard D'Artagnan talking to the others before leaving for his patrol.

_Had he been in a better state at the moment, he might have felt a glimmer of pleasure when his friends refused to elaborate on the subject. _

_He heard Porthos assuring the boy that it was none of his business, while Aramis took a quieter approach of saying that it wasn't something D'Artagnan needed to bother with- his own way of saying "It's none of your business", Athos guessed. _

_It was still only reluctantly that the boy actually left the house, going to his patrol and, no doubt, thinking over what he could possibly do to meddle in Athos' affairs once he returned. _

_Porthos eventually left as well, probably to visit a mistress or tavern, more likely both. Aramis, however, secluded himself in his room, writing some form of poetry or reading one of those infernal books written in languages only he seemed to understand. _

_As the day wore on, Athos left his room from time to time, but not often. It was getting late by the time he decided to go to Planchet, ordering him to bring some wine. With his luck, they were out, again. Making sure the servant knew whose fault they were going to say it was- Planchet ready with his usual speech about what, exactly, he was- Athos went to get it himself. _

_The sky outside was darkening with clouds that matched his mood perfectly, and the air was thick with the promise of rain. He walked, aimlessly, for some time before he remembered his goal of acquiring alcohol to drown his misery, or guilt, or hatred, or whatever feeling was assaulting him at the moment. _

_Sure enough, he'd barely entered the tavern before the downpour began. He bought two bottles of the strongest wine he could afford and began the journey home, opening one of them in preparation for the trip._

_By the time he got there, he'd almost finished one bottle of wine, was soaking wet, and even the thoughts of Milady couldn't keep him from appreciating that Planchet had had the foresight to get a fire going. He knew right away that Porthos wasn't back, but that D'Artagnan was. His cloak was hanging, dripping, near the fire, and his equally sodden hat was situated on the back of a chair. _

_Swearing to himself, Athos hoped the boy wouldn't appear from wherever he was and start hurling questions at him again. If there was a God, he thought, then D'Artagnan would be worn out from his patrol and would already be in his room, sleeping. As it was, the best course of action seemed to be to hurry to his own room as quickly and quietly as possible, and then bolt the door._

_He quickly drained the bottle, setting it on the table before ascending the stairs, second bottle in hand and already halfway opened. However, he froze in place upon reaching the top of the stairs-_

_His door was open, and there was light coming out of the room. _

_Fury already rising in his blood, he approached slowly, silently, drawing the sword that he'd brought with him when he'd gone out, in case it wasn't one of his companions being foolish, but an actual threat. _

_Reaching the doorway and peering inside, he was angered even further. _

_That idiot boy from Gascony was in his room, at his desk, reading _her_ letters. Athos had known the boy was prone to being reckless, acting without thinking, and overall had a tendency to pull idiotic stunts. But he'd never expected this. He watched, dumbstruck, for a moment, before entering. _

_He was only a few feet away from the lad, still unnoticed, when he finally spoke. _

_"What the _hell_ are you doing?" he growled, watching the boy jump like a caught thief at the sound of his voice. _

_Turning around slowly, D'Artagnan's eyes went first to Athos' glare, then to the sword in his hand, next to the bottle in his other hand, and lastly to the letter that was still in his own hand. His face flushed slightly, and he would've taken a step back, had the desk not prevented him from doing so. He opened his mouth to speak, but Athos cut him off before he could utter a single word. _

_"I asked you a question," he snapped. _

_D'Artagnan found his voice and, putting the letter quickly back on the desk, began to look more flustered than ever. "I just wanted to know what was-"_

_"Bothering me?" he fixed him with a stony glower, "Little besides you," _

_The boy winced, but didn't appear to register the severity of his folly. "You've been brooding for days," he replied, "and I thought that-"_

_Athos raised an eyebrow. "You thought that sneaking around my chambers and reading letters meant for my eyes and no other's would make me feel better?" _

_D'Artagnan looked vaguely indignant at that remark, but held his ground in any case, much to Athos' annoyance. "No," he said slowly, "but I thought if I knew what was wrong, I could help somehow!" he realised, by that point, how weak his excuses sounded, but it could be supposed that his intentions had been better than his words, "you just...shouldn't suffer alone," he tried, but Athos had heard enough. _

_"And you think, that of all company, I'd prefer _yours_?" he hissed, "a little boy with no real experience of the world, or of love lost? You may have been here awhile, boy, but don't think you know me." _

_That was when the boy began to look angry as well, and he picked up the replaced letter, waving it toward Athos without thinking, expression defiant, "I know who she _thought_ you were, and who _I_ thought you were," he said, voice rising, "but you're not him- the only reason you don't let anyone help you is because you prefer to wallow in self-pity!"_

_The next thing Athos knew, he'd struck the boy with the flat of the sword, catching him, hard, across the arm and making him jerk back, stumbling against the desk with a short cry of pain and shock. Athos, shocked in his own right, dropped the sword instantly, heart hammering. _

_He could've killed or maimed the boy, if the sword had been turned even slightly..._

_He didn't want to think about it, but the look D'Artagnan gave him still sent gruesome images flashing behind his eyes._

Athos chanced a look out the window, catching a vague glimpse of D'Artagnan before the lad disappeared behind a corner. Where he was going, Athos couldn't even guess. It wasn't as if he had anywhere to go, unless he was going to join Porthos- and Athos highly doubted that. He groaned again and buried his head in his hands.

He could've killed the boy.

D'Artagnan shouldn't have been in his room, though! It didn't matter that the boy had been trying to help, he shouldn't have resorted to sneaking about behind Athos' back, that much, Athos knew to be correct. But had he over-reacted? Was he still over-reacting?

He stood up slowly, moving to pick up the letter D'Artagnan had dropped upon being hit. It was one of the last he'd been sent before Venice, one written in perfect French by the diabolical English lady, if she could even be called a lady. It expressed, naturally, undying love and the deepest desire to see Athos again, and had been written with such an honest tone that he'd never doubted a word.

It was full of praise and compliments, as love-letters tended to be, but Athos shuddered as he read it.

He'd never thought he'd find himself torn between a sinister woman he'd once loved and an arrogant little Gascon he was beginning to love just as much, if in a different way.

A line had been crossed tonight, though, on both sides, and he didn't know if it could be uncrossed.

A brief knock on the wall near his door made him look up. It was Aramis, looking at him steadily and, without speaking, asking permission to enter.

He gave a small nod, motioning for Aramis to come in. "What do you want?" he asked, tension heavy in his voice.

The former priest gave him a sympathetic, almost sad look. "I couldn't help but hear-" he began, pausing slightly and looking around the room, eyes lighting on the sword that was still on the floor, "You and D'Artagnan had a disagreement," he tried again.

Athos snorted, setting the bottle on the floor. "More than a disagreement," he growled, "the boy thinks he knows everything, including how to fix problems that aren't his to fix."

Aramis nodded, sighing. "He shouldn't have intruded in such a way," he said, "but he did have your best interests at heart."

The musketeer huffed again, scowling. "So he's to be sainted, then,"

His friend shook his head, speaking in a tone not unlike the one he usually reserved for the bedside of those who had fallen ill. "No, not at all. I'm only suggesting that he was _trying_ to help, or at least understand. It wasn't his place, but...I suppose he thought that, once he knew what was wrong, he could talk to you about it or, if it proved a wiser choice, consent to leave you be about it."

Athos looked at him for a moment, before heaving a sigh of his own. "He'll certainly mind his own business now, after I nearly took his arm off...it _was_ his fault...?"

Aramis gave a light shrug. "You struck him then...you're both to blame," he said softly, "but...do you remember four months past, when he'd been wounded, and said nothing of it*?"

He wasn't sure what that had to do with anything, but he nodded in recognition of what Aramis was referencing. "Yes- that bastard who called himself a musketeer had been terrorising him for weeks..." he mumbled.

Again, the former priest nodded. "And do you remember the method by which we discovered as much?"

This time, Athos shot him a stern glare. "As I recall, Porthos threatened to give him a good knocking-about if he kept sulking without telling us why-"

"And then?"

"And we eventually followed him."

Aramis ducked his head slightly. "Yes- and he was furious with us when we intervened, but, if we hadn't done as we did-"

"He could've been killed, or worse."

His friend looked him in the eye, his own eyes understanding as he placed a hand on Athos' shoulder. "Well, perhaps he thought it time to return the favour."

Athos accepted the logic, even if he wasn't happy with it, and looked out the window again. "It won't do any good if he's too upset to come back."

"He'll be back," Aramis replied, turning to leave, "it's his pride that's hurt, more than anything else."

"As it was mine, I suppose." with that, Athos stood up, clasping Aramis' arm in an affectionate gesture before picking up the bottle of wine. "Until I return, you may as well finish this with Planchet-"

Aramis frowned. "Until _you_ retur- return from _where_?"

Athos allowed for a wan smile. "I'm going after D'Artagnan, firstly to make amends and then to drag him back here with a notion that he'd best not have caught a chill, or he and Planchet will swap bedplaces."

**Er...*Grins* See, implied fluff! *Nods* sorry if that last line was out of character, or if this didn't make sense. I listened for their voices in my head before typing the dialogue, though. Still sort of learning this fandom ^:^ Not that that's any excuse if this is lame, of course. **

**As per usual, if you see anything that needs work, please tell me what's wrong and how to fix it (Preferably not using D'Artagnan's method of sorting out where trouble is, please.)**

**Oh, right! *- that's actually a reference to a ficsie that I've not quite written yet *Sheepish* :} And the third and final chapter to this one is underway ^_^ **


	3. What Will be Done

**So here's part three of this little story grouping, hope you guys enjoy it! It's going to be, again, sort of vague, but it should be relatively clear what's going on. Exactly what's being done is up to your imagination on this one, though. It's got a definate T rating, mostly because, no matter what you imagine going on, it's always going to be torture of some sort, and there is...well...I'll let you see for yourself. Not much fluff in this one, I'm afraid, but I've got other stories coming up with so plenty of sugar to make up for it ^:^**

**Without further delay- the final chapter ^:^  
**

* * *

~What Will be Done~

Athos knelt, powerless, in the grasp of two men he'd never met, facing two men he could only wish he'd never met, and the boy for whom he was convinced he felt the same. His heart was pounding hard in his chest, roaring in his ears and making him feel almost dizzy with terror. Proper, blind terror like he hadn't felt, hadn't _really_ felt, in years.

His eyes were fixed straight ahead, at the tall, handsome man and the petrified lad he loomed over.

This was something he'd never prepared for, never needed to prepare for. The second man walked in a circle around him, laughing to himself and occasionally barking out an order to his nephew, the one causing the torment.

He placed a hand on Athos' shoulder, leaning down to whisper in that sickening way of his. "You can still stop this, my friend," Lothar purred, "you and the lad have suffered enough, haven't you? Just _tell me_, and it can end, you can both go free." That was, perhaps, the cruellest part of this whole ordeal. Yes, they had both suffered plenty over the past nine days, almost constantly. Both had been deprived of sleep, half starved and tortured at seemingly random intervals, each time in a different way so they could never be fully prepared for what was coming.

And they'd been seperated the whole time, hadn't had any contact with each other, had no way of knowing what was being done to the other, only knowing what was being told to them.

Neither had liked what they'd been told.

Athos had nearly lost it two days ago when Lothar had come to tell him that D'Artagnan had, supposedly, finally broken and told him everything he knew, which wasn't enough. And he could have been telling the truth- D'Artagnan wasn't yet a full fledged musketeer, and there were things that Athos knew that he didn't.

Meaning that their captor's attentions were turned brutally toward the older, using the younger against him.

And now, today, he'd decided that it was going to end, one way or another.

Still hovering near Athos, Lothar motioned vaguely to Ariel, his nephew, and Athos closed his eyes to block out what was done as a result, but nothing could have prevented him from hearing. The shattered cry rattled his nerves, and he felt hatred flare within him toward the men responsible.

Lothar's grip on his shoulder tightened. "I'm not going to play games forever," he growled, "Choose now, loyalty to the crown, or loyalty to your friend. Your head or your heart. Which is it going to be?"

Athos wrenched his eyes open, immediately wishing he hadn't when he caught the pleading expression the boy was trying not to show. He watched the boy intently, trying to silently tell him everything he couldn't say aloud. Without breaking eye-contact, he addressed Lothar, trying to keep his voice from shaking as hard as he himself was. "I can't betray the king," his words came mechanically, without feeling or passion. Cold, flat, lifeless.

The man paused a moment before shouting to Ariel the order Athos didn't want to hear, and Ariel attacked the lad more savagely than ever.

Athos wanted nothing more than to make it stop, but already knew he could not. He'd been tortured just as badly, and could barely stand without help, let alone take four men, plus the rest of Lothar's guards once they realised something was wrong.

Ariel stopped, at last, panting and looking to his uncle for further direction.

Athos saw, with a brief flicker of satisfaction, that D'Artagnan had managed to draw almost as much blood as Ariel had, although his own ran cold when he realised that half the blood Ariel sported probably wasn't his own.

Lothar walked away from him, moving to D'Artagnan, who had just struggled to his knees. He watched the lad emotionlessly, head tilted almost curiously to one side before he delivered a kick that sent the boy sprawling again, just getting his arms beneath himself in time to keep from meeting the ground face first.

With a grim scowl, Lothar reached down and grabbed his prisoner by the hair, dragging him up enough to meet Athos' eyes once more.

Tears were still streaming from what Ariel had done, and the boy could do nothing to keep from sobbing. Lothar's twisted smile returned, playing dangerously across his lips. "You see what you're causing, Athos? Already, it's too late to be reversed, but you can prevent it going any further. If you feel any love for the lad, or have even the faintest notion of mercy-"

"Athos, _please_!"

The musketeer felt his eyes widen, and the blood drained from his face. His heart sank- D'Artagnan had never begged before, and he'd never had to allow a companion to suffer while he could make it stop with only a few words, certainly hadn't had to watch a companion suffer like this. He knew he had to, but for the first time questioned whether he could.

But he forced the feeling aside. He didn't know what Lothar wanted with the information, but knew it was important enough that he couldn't risk giving it to him.

Knowing already that it was a lost cause, he tried to harden his heart the way he had with Milady, tried to make it easier to ignore the screamed pleas for help, and found that he couldn't manage it any more than he could avoid knowing what was being done.

Lothar didn't wait for him to say no, simply gave another order, one that sent a thrill of fear through him that was so powerful it had him struggling against the guards with every ounce of strength he had left. There wasn't a thing he could do to stop it, not a thing he could do to keep from seeing Ariel carry out the order he'd been given, nothing but fight until he was limp with exhaustion.

It was more than he could take, by more than he could measure. "_God, no!"_ he screamed, unable to do more than pull against the guards' grasps in weak, sporadic bursts. His vision became tinted with red, and he watched Lothar with an entirely new form of hate, "_I swear I'll kill you!" _

He was granted no response beyond the sound of soft laughter, and of Lothar giving another order in an amused, yet bored tone. "Come now, Athos, the poor little one can't take much more of this, and I rather think Ariel's taken it too far, don't you? Think carefully, man, are you really going to let him die like this? Without a shred of honour left?"

Athos glared all the harder, forcing his line of sight away from D'Artagnan. "He has more honour than you'll ever possess."

It went on for hours that seemed like years, until Athos himself was hardly aware of what was taking place. All he knew, after a point, was that D'Artagnan wasn't screaming anymore, though he couldn't fathom exactly what that meant. His vision was flickering from darkness to light so much that he couldn't make any detail of the room out clearly, and the only sounds he perceived were lofty voices that floated high above him, too distorted to hear properly.

From time to time, he was aware of something, like the first pained gasp he'd heard in ages, or the sound of Lothar's commands growing more and more irritated, seeming to build to a head before coming as shouts.

At one point, Ariel loomed in front of him, blood dripping down his chin as he whispered hoarsely, voice too soft to understand.

The thought occured to him that, had he not known at this point who and what Ariel was, he may have trusted the man as D'Artagnan, initially, had. He wanted to scoff at the idea- that was what had gotten them into this to start with, what had given them this seeming death sentence.

It wasn't until he felt the sharp pain in his throat that he realised it must be about to end.

The pain brought him back to reality, a reality that didn't make sense, with no guards beside him, but with Lothar holding a blade to his neck, glowering down at him with what he imagined was all the fury of hell itself. He'd already pressed hard enough on the blade to draw blood, and Athos was forced to admit he welcomed death at that point. It would, at least, be an escape from watching his friend, practically his son, be tortured. A pang of sorrow shot through him as he realised it probably meant D'Artagnan was already dead.

Lothar was about to deal the killing blow when a sound outside the room made him jerk to attention, releasing Athos with a sneer. It would prove to be a mistake, whether a fortunate or unfortunate one was yet unclear, but the man fled the room with his nephew, vanishing from sight and hearing.

Athos, by then quite dillusional with fever, didn't know how long he was gone before the door crashed open, admitting what seemed to be a flood of people and sound into the room.

At first he thought it was Lothar, Ariel, and more guards, but he quickly realised, even in his fevered state, that it couldn't be.

While the first of the voices were by no means gentle, he soon felt touches he knew well, heard the voices of his companions; Porthos, Aramis, and Treville. A rescue, a late one, but a rescue nonetheless. He fought to keep his eyes open, his pride not enough to keep him from leaning heavily against Porthos as he tried to speak.

He meant to say something along the lines of 'it took you long enough', but those weren't the words that came out.

"D'Artagnan," he mumbled, the name bringing his senses into focus as he gripped the front of Porthos' shirt and watched him intently for any sign of what he wanted to hear.

He didn't find what he was looking for, and instead was left wondering, if only for a moment, why the man's eyes seemed to cloud, why he was shaking his head like that, and where Aramis was.

Suddenly it didn't matter that he couldn't walk, or that he was already bleeding from at least a dozen wounds that hadn't begun to heal over yet, all that mattered was throwing everything he had into the action of shoving Porthos away and getting to D'Artagnan any way he could, even if it meant crawling to his side.

He already knew he wouldn't like what he found, but it didn't stop the feeling of shock from coming over him.

Aramis was already there, and looked at him with concerned sadness. He held the boy's hand in a gentle grip that was being returned so tightly Athos was surprised the former priest's fingers weren't being broken, and he held that damned book Athos knew he didn't even need in his other hand.

Athos knew what it was for, but was horrified at the notion of it. He swayed slightly, feeling sick.

Aramis began reciting the words he'd long-since memorised, voice steady and soothing, or rather, would have been soothing if those words were anything but what they were.

D'Artagnan stirred lightly, opening his eyes with obvious difficulty. At first, he saw only Aramis, and then nothing, and then Aramis again. But when they finally saw Athos, such a look came over him that Athos almost wished he hadn't been seen at all. The boy didn't look frightened, exactly, but there was another emotion that shouldn't have been present, should never have been present.

He tried to speak, only to find that his voice had left him long before, but Athos could clearly see what he was trying to say.

"_I'm sorry,"_ he mouthed, again and again, tearing Athos' heart and resolve further each time. The musketeer took his other hand in his own, trying to reassure him, wishing that, this one time, he could prevent what was coming as he couldn't have done earlier.

Aramis finished the rites and turned to Athos, his own eyes glistening, guilt apparent in his very posture. They'd arrived too late, one part of his mind was saying, the other simply thanking God they'd gotten there soon enough to save Athos. There didn't seem to be anything left to say, and they remained in silence until Porthos approached.

The big man avoided looking at D'Artagnan, and instead focussed on Athos. "They're well out of reach," he said quietly, "long gone by the time we got here..." his gaze went to their dying companion before he could stop it, and he shuddered visably before carefully brushing the hair away from the boy's face with a shaking hand, "but don't worry," he said, "We'll get 'em. For both of you."

Another long silence followed, soon broken only by D'Artagnan gasping for breath.

M. de Treville drew near, walking quietly and kneeling still more quietly. Without a word, he gently lifted the boy's head enough to help him drink from a flask of brandy that he'd brought with him, hoping the alcohol would ease the pain enough to allow at least a few moments of peace before the end came.

Barely five minutes passed before Athos felt the grip on his hand slacken, and he looked down at the boy in alarm. He still drew breath, but it wasn't as laboured as before, and his eyes were open again, looking into Athos' own with an alertness that Athos hadn't seen since before they'd been captured. His lips were moving softly, forming words in little more than a whisper.

Frowning, Athos leaned closer, straining to hear.

"_A-all...for o-one..."_

Athos closed his eyes tightly, fighting down tears, and leaned closer still, pressing his lips to the boy's forehead before placing a hand on each of his shoulders and nodding once.

"And one for all."

~Fin~

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**So, hopefuly that wasn't too bad...*Dodges knives being thrown at her, whether for bad writing or sheer evilness she doesn't know* So, basically, if any of you are wondering how exactly that's a "What will be done", it basically means that the Three WILL be going after Lothar and Ariel. That's what the title means.**

Also, yes, it is a miracle Athos managed to stay awake so long, and was coherent enough to even know what was happening. I considered having him wake up and ask what happened, but decided against it in the end, in favour of him being just so stubborn he refuses to finally pass out until some point after D'Artagnan is dead. 

**I'm not really familiar with Treville, but it just seemed to me like he'd come with Porthos and Aramis to try and rescue D'Artagnan and Athos, if you don't think so, please tell me and I'll do an edit and take him out of the chapter. **

**Again, exactly what was being done is entirely up to you- I myself have several different versions in my mind that interchange themselves at will. **

**And I know you guys will probably want to kill me for having D'Artagnan actually crack under torture, but I have a feeling he would. After all, Ariel and Lothar are freaks *if any of you have encountered Pendragon P A S S I O N's Lucas, or my Ulric, you'll know what kind of freak* and, while D'Artagnan is brave, there's only so much anyone can take.**

Right then...I think I've covered my bases...if you spot anything you want to yell at me about, go ahead- I'm open to concrit. Just do it politely and try not to sound too condescending, because then I'll probably rail against it mentally for several days before accepting your opinion as most likely correct :)

So, again, hope you enjoyed this little set of stories. I'll be posting some more later, and they'll actually be beta-read! *Hears you all cheering* So, yeah, longest Author's Note ever comes to an end now, and...well, good night for now, see you all on Tuesday ^:^


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